


Mycroft and Cocoa.

by OtakuElf



Series: Biological Clock [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 19:19:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5714095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtakuElf/pseuds/OtakuElf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg moves in with Mycroft.  Adjustments ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mycroft and Cocoa.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116 for beta-reading!

Mycroft Holmes volunteered to bring the films for Greg’s little soiree. Well, Greg had asked him to bring them, actually. Gregory Lestrade had presented the idea at dinner in late November: “What if we had people over to watch a Christmas film?”

“We?” Mycroft was slightly surprised. “How do you mean, Greg?”

Greg had cooked - pasta in a tomato cream sauce, with a light salad. Mycroft had brought a bottle of wine. They’d sat down to eat at Greg’s tiny kitchen table, Formica top hidden under a checkered cotton tablecloth and tapers in small, green-glass candlesticks.

“Well -” Greg swallowed a mouthful, then went on, “I have that big telly. Alright, it’s not as huge as yours. But there’s room enough to sit on the couch and chairs, and if you provide one of your collection, we could do a film night. Dinner first, then the film. Popcorn and cocoa.”

“You’d like to have people here to watch a film,” Mycroft repeated quietly. Then he asked, “Whom were you thinking of inviting?”

“Well, you, me, John, Sherlock, and Siger. I wasn’t planning a huge social event. Just a film. You know. Family.” Greg grinned. “Not that I can picture Sherlock watching a movie.”

“No, although he has been known to view documentaries, both with an eye to gather information, and one to destroy the creator utterly with verbal abuse,” admitted big brother Mycroft.

“So, no Sherlock then,” Greg said.

“In all probability, no,” Mycroft told the man. 

Greg shook his head, and turned his attention back to the meal. Between Mycroft’s attentions that night, and a burst of activity at the Met, he had no time to think of planning anything. Then, over Christmas, Mycroft suggested that Greg move in to Mycroft’s much larger establishment.

It made sense. Greg admitted as much, although he did drag his feet a little. Just a very little bit. Moving out of his tiny rat trap - though he had never seen a rat, Greg had felt very trapped there. But would he be moving into a larger trap?

Mycroft could be controlling. The house was Mycroft’s property, and although he called it his “flat”, it really was a house. With a clearly designated space for Greg in the form of an upstairs room, next to Mycroft’s office, and across the hall from his - no, “their” bedroom now. In the end Greg Lestrade used his holiday time to close out his own flat, and get settled - to start anyway. The creation of his space in the empty room could wait until later.

For now, Greg was concentrating on his Christmas gift to Mycroft. Truth be told, he had started concentrating on the Christmas gift over seven months ago. Last year, on a lark, he had purchased a first edition work of an author that Greg knew they were both fond of. The title, _Master of the World_ , had been a cheeky grin at the minor member of the British Government. It had served them both well, sharing the book as one or the other read aloud on the nights that Greg stayed over. Or Mycroft would bring it with him when he stayed at Greg’s flat. Greg’s French was mostly colloquial, learned in the cradle from family members. Mycroft’s was more polished, more standard.

It would not do to duplicate what he had already given. So that was out. The detective inspector had researched musical manuscripts and determined that his salary would never afford to purchase a piano piece that would be appropriate. Nor did he have the background to hire a composer to create a work for Mycroft. Sherlock possibly could, but no. That would have to be Sherlock’s own hook. Or perhaps Siger would when he grew up. Greg did mention the idea to John at one point when they were out at the pub of an evening.

He did finally come up with an idea. When he moved into Mycroft’s “flat”, it was the last item that he brought with him. Not that the silver-haired man thought that his auburn-haired partner would peek, but it was best not to give even the slightest opportunity to deduce.

Their Christmas morning together was spent creating a lavish breakfast filled with personal favorites. They served themselves from a huge silver tray settled over the top of the coffee table, and ate curled up on the couch, still in their nightwear as the fire crackled on the hearth and the fairy lights twinkled on the decorated fir tree. There were, of course, a number of small entertaining or thoughtful gifts. Those, and the stockings of course, were disposed over in a leisurely fashion. 

Finally, Mycroft, who had been moving something about in his pocket all morning - such that even an ordinary detective inspector would notice it - knelt down on the floor in front of Greg’s perch on the sofa. Opening the small black box he had retrieved from the pocket of his robe, he asked, “Gregory Lestrade, will you marry me?”

Inside of the box were two plain platinum bands. Reaching forward, Greg ran a finger over the rings. “Mycroft,” he said, startled, “how long have you had these?”

“Two months,” his lover told him. “Sherlock inferred that I was going to propose, and requested that I wait until after Christmas to make my suit.”

“So that he could ask John first?” Greg began to laugh. “I wondered at your response when I read you John’s text message.”

“You have not yet given me your answer,” Mycroft reminded him.

“It’s all so sudden.” Greg fanned himself like a Victorian maiden. He relented in the face of Mycroft’s huff of exasperation. “Yes, Mycroft. Let’s tie the knot.”

“I had thought to use these as promise rings until we can shop together for our wedding rings.” Mycroft offered.

“May I?” Greg selected the smaller ring, and slipped it on the slender ring finger of Mycroft’s left hand. Then he held his own hand out with a grin for his partner to place the larger ring on his.

They sat for a while in the quiet room. Greg was staring at the ring on his finger. Mycroft was watching Greg. Still and all, there’s only so long that one can stare at a ring. Greg woke to that fact with the realization that he had not given Mycroft his gift.

The box that Greg retrieved from under the tree was flat. From the shape, the weight, and the sound as it was handed to him, Mycroft inferred that this was paper of some sort. Possibly a manuscript? Greg had given him a book last year. Pulling the gilded tissue paper from a white pasteboard box, he lifted the lid, removed the documents inside the box, and unfolded them.

“Malvern Hills” topped the first page, with dates, and a list of concerts. Mycroft read each page silently.

Nervously Greg began to talk: “I’ve booked a piano holiday for you. Well, for both of us. Rooms for both, anyway, and I’ll be joining you for meals and excursions, but not for lessons. I worked out dates with Anthea, so that you’re scheduled off for that week.”

The smile was worth it, shining over Mycroft’s face like sunshine coming from behind a cloud. “Greg -” 

Mycroft stopped. He got up from his place on the floor and took the seat next to Greg, his arms surrounding the silver-haired man. “This is extraordinarily thoughtful. Thank you. It is the perfect gift.”

The kiss that came next was even better. When they left the sitting room, the box of papers detailing the Piano Holiday went up the stairs with them, to be read through more thoroughly at a later time. After all, they had all the time in the world now, didn’t they? And they had more enjoyable gifts to give, at least until it was time to leave for Baker Street.

....

In any case,. Mycroft left the decoration of Greg’s “den” strictly to him. He would make suggestions if asked, but otherwise, he pointed his newly moved flatmate toward the “household” budget, and gave the man free rein. Greg’s stomach had dropped when he saw the “budget” set aside for redecorating. Being extremely frugal with major purchases, and paying for most decorative items with his own money - not to mention some of his stock of memories from his previous life - Greg managed to create a comfortable space. Not cheap, mind you. Good quality in the furnishings, but not crowded or overdecorated.

Mycroft might have wished him to be more lavish, as Greg was someone that the man would happily spend money on, but there was also something to be said for a partner who appreciated care and quality. “Of course I do,” Greg told him. “I’m with you, aren’t I?”

Quite possibly the most romantic statement that Mycroft had ever heard.

Looking about the newly decorated room, Mycroft Holmes noted, “You don’t have a television in here. Is that not _de rigueur_ for a ‘man cave’?”

“Man cave?” Greg laughed. “Where the hell did that come from? No, I have space here for my books, and the computer if I need it. For telly, I’ll be downstairs - hopefully with you, won’t I?”

“You did say that you wanted to invite others over for a movie night,” Mycroft reminded the man he would marry.

And even though it was past Christmas, John, Sherlock, Siger, and the twins joined them for _A Christmas Carol_ , complete with popcorn and hot chocolate. The children slept through it, of course. Sherlock made comments about the off-screen lives of various background actors. John sat on the couch with his own affianced, and with Siger balled up, sound asleep across both of their laps. 

Greg smiled as he heard Sherlock telling John, “This will work well as an annual experiment. I will need to enter this data into Siger’s and Miranda’s and Rosalind’s spreadsheet!”

“Traditions, Sherlock.” John’s smile was in his voice. “They’re called traditions.”

Sherlock’s flapping hand waved away the definition as the pair of them hauled their trio of hostages to fortune home.

Greg closed the door behind them, turned off the light on the porch, and went up to join Mycroft in their bedroom.

**Author's Note:**

> In researching for this, I discovered that manuscripts by the piano masters are astonishingly pricy. Only the best for Mycroft and all, but still, I couldn't afford them, and I really don't think that Greg could either.


End file.
